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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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Rosemary. 

"REMEMBRANCE. 



Rosemary. 

"REMEMBRANCE." 



BY 

AGNES MASTERS ARNOLD. 



1898: 

THE SAXTON PRINTING CO. 
WASHINGTON, D. C. 






25858 



CopyrifTht, ia98, 
Bv AGNES MASTERS ARNOLD. 



TWO copied f^ec:3«V£0. 




FEB 20 1899 \ 






CONTENTvS. 



PAGK 

Living Pictures ^ 

My Birthdays i^ 

Little Dandy Jim 12 

Which? 15 

Old Letters i7 

The Sidewalk Dance 20 

Retrospection 22 

Men of the Maine 25 

The Call of the Sea 27 

A Spring Lesson 29 

A Wish .'. 31 

Song of the Press 34 

The Clock's Christmas Message 37 

In the Land 'O the Leal 39 

Or Else 4i 

The Old Home 43 

Influence 45 

After Awhile 49 

Song of the Seasons 5© 

The Palace of the Heart 52 

Novus Vitae 55 



The Clock iu the Corner 5^ 

The Wreck of the Elbe 60 

In the Light of a Lamp 62 

A Day on the Hudson 64 

Fate ^6 

" Going at Auction— A Pew at St. Peters " 67 

The Anglers 7i 

Old Friends 72 

A Hero in the Strife 75 

Autumn Days on Country Roads 81 

A Summer Concert in Washington 90 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Rktrospkction. 

I sit here in shimmering satin 22 

The Call of the Sea. 

And the silvery thread grew wider 27 

Or EIvSE. 

Not////^, Oh Father! in thy heavenly home 41 

Wreck of the Elbe. 

Cold and cruel was the waves' embrace 60 



LIVING PICTURES. 

My eyes gaze out of the window, 
On the red brick city walls, 

While my thoughts go back to the past 
And another scene recalls. 

The city streets are forgotten, 
Amid pastures rich and sweet. 

Where broad fields of tender clover 
Are spread for my weary feet. 

And under the soft May sunshine. 
Blossoms peach, cherry and pear, 

While the bloom on the apple trees 
Wafts its perfume through the air. 

The willows wear a tender green. 
That border the dear old lane ; 

The maples by the kitchen door 
Scatter down a crimson rain. 



LIVING PICTURES. 7 

There on the right lie the vineyards, 
As they bask beneath the sun, 

With promise of purple vintage 
When September days have come. 

I hear the bay of the fox-hound, 
The song of men, as they plod 

After their ploughs, whose mould-boards 
gleam 
As they turn the sweet, damp sod. 

And there in stable or pasture, 

I look for a dear, dumb face. 
Whose dark eyes speak a love for me, 

Lapse of time cannot efface. 

IVIy horse, who very gently, lays 
His soft nose against my cheek. 

As he mutely begs the apple 

For which he is told "to speak." 



LIVING PICTURES. 8 

The cows that amble toward me, 

As they loiter in the lane, 
Come to me, for I call to them. 

Each one, b}' her well known name. 

There is "Bess" and "Rnbe" and " Aldy," 
And "Nannie," the pet of all; 

Gentle and mild with liquid eyes, 
And a head so clean and small. 



In the barn in soft, gray twilight. 
Sounds the pigeon's plaintive call ; 

The shout of men, the neigh of teams : 
Then stillness falls on all. 



All these are the living pictures 
I see on the city wall. 

And these are the tender voices 
That out of the distance call. 



LIVING PICTURES. 

Ye people, born in the city, 

All your wealth can hold no charm 
That could buy my treasured mem'ries 

Of my childhood on the farm. 



MY BIRTHDAYS. 

Across the widening stretch of years, 
I seem to see my birthdays set, 

Like jewels upon a golden chain ; 

Some shining, some with tear-drops wet. 

White are these first, on the slender strand ; 

In the next hides the Amber's beam ; 
Then Amethists flush with rosy light. 

And the fires in the Opals gleam. 

Then follows the Turquoise tender blue, 
The heart's dye of the Ruby's flame ; 

The steady glow of the Emerald's cool, 
Like the rest that shall follow pain. 

And after these come glittering Pearls, 
With their luster like falling tears ; 

Then, the softened tints of the Agate gray, 
Slips on to the strand of the years. 



MV BIRTHDAYS. \\ 

And so they seem ever to whisper, 
Of the colors the days demand, 

Till a bit of granite shall mark the last, 
When out of the gate of life I've passed, 
Into "The silent land." 



LITTLE DANDY JIM. 
"CryinV' ye say, "fer a dog?" 

Well, sir, I b'lieve I am. 
'Spose ye never seen the like 

From outen a growed-np man? 
All broke up, an' sheddin' tears. 

For a little "black and tan?" 

Mebbe you ain't ever hed 
As cunnin' a one as this. 

That crept inter my heart, like. 
When no bigger than my fist. 

An' he hed sech takin' ways, 
Allers wantin' fer ter speak 

Ter earn the bit o' supper 
Thet I had fer him ter eat. 

A-dancin' on his hin' legs. 
Then a-layin' down fer dead, 

Ter git a bit o' bacon 

Or a piece of ole corn bread. 



LITTLE DANDY JIM. 13 

His honest eyes, chockful o' love, 

A-foUerin' nie about ; 
But, bein' just a dog, sir. 

He couldn't speak it out. 

An' this was how it happened — 
He was trottin' down the street 

To where he sot an' listened 
Till he heard my comin' feet. 



When thet there beast o' Simons' 
Come a-sneakin on his track. 

An', with a spring, sunk his fangs 
Deep inter his little back. 

An' when I come up to him, 
He give me a lovin' glance, 

Tho' the little limbs was stiff' nin' 
Thet could useter jump an' dance. 



LITTLE DANDY JIM. 14 

He licked my han' so grateful, 

Then the shadders dimmed his eye — 

I hope I'll go as peaceful 
When I'm goin' fer ter die. 

Money ter buy another? 

Ef I looked my eyesight dim 
I dont ever hope ter find 

Another Dandy Jim. 



WHICH? 

Two men there were, who knelt at one fair 

shrine — 
A woman's heart — and sought admission 

there, 
That they might find among its harmonies, 
Chords blending truly with their own life 

song. 
And win each for himself, her pure, true 

love. 

Yet both men failed. She searched her 

honest heart 
In vain, for ne'er an answ'ring love-note 

found. 
Gently she gave her "no" and turned aside, 
And sadly went her solitary way. 

And they turned too, aside, and strove to bear. 
Each in his different way, his bitter loss. 
One sought with sparkling wine, and song, 

and jest, 
To blot from mem'ry's negative, the face 



WHICH? 16 

Of the sweet woman he had loved in vain, 
And daily lower sank, as the mad whirl 
Of dissipation drew him further in, 
To drown, at last beneath its waves a wreck. 

The other hid his love within his breast. 
And wore it as a talisman for good. 
Its power bore him above life's darkest moods; 
The mem'ry of that pure face loved and lost. 
Still shone on him with radiance undimmed. 
And by its light he lived in act and thought. 
Worthy the gift of her that was denied. 

One could not bear his life without her love. 
So flung at mercy's feet the priceless boon. 
The other, loved her well enough to let 
Her memory lift him up "to higher things." 
And now the question is which loved the 
most? 



OLD LETTERS. 

A package of old letters, 

Bound about with ribbon blue, 
With the silken band all faded. 

That meant that love was true. 
Many years have come and gone. 

Since their tale of love they told ; 
The flame, then burning brightly. 

Now has flickered and grown cold. 

Once more I pause and hold them, 

Sitting here before the fire. 
That soon shall be converted. 

To a dreary funeral p}'re. 
And I'm going to reverse 

The strange horoscope of time. 
And backward read the story 

Of these lives of yours and mine. 



OLD LETTERS. is 



Once on a time, spring found us, 

In the heyday of youth's prime ; 
Love was sweet, and faith and hope 

Made life a thing sublime. 
The words yoic wrote by pages. 

Showed an honest love and pure ; 
The words / wrote seemed to pray 

That it always would endure. 

The years passed on ! and I see 

A hardened, cynical man. 
Fighting grim in life's battle, 

As only a strong soul can. 
And a self contained woman. 

Who smiles at love's tender ways, 
As with busy hands she strives 

To still the thoughts of other days. 



OLD LETTERS. Y) 



But do not think I blame thee 

Dear, because I can't forget; 
Because the thoughts these letters bring, 

Are shadowed by regret. 
Both did stumble, and drift apart ; 

Perhaps it was better so. 
Yet my eyes grow dim at memories, 

Of our love of long ago. 

I often wonder vaguely, 

If there are not times with thee, 
When a regret comes o'er thee, 

At the voice of memory. 
Mid the threads our shuttles held. 

Were some of a brilliant sheen ; 
But what of the iveb that lies 

With our tangled lives wove in ? 



THE SIDEWALK DANCE. 

With tangled curls o'er her sunny brow, 
Eyes that are merry, smiles that are sweet. 
She's running to meet the organ-man. 
Careless and happy — child of the street. 

Now he has halted, the music starts ; 
While she keeps time, with her head and 

feet. 
Fast comes the breath through her parted 

lips. 
While she is listening — child of the street. 

One hand is lifting the faded skirt. 
The other pressing her heart's wild beat ; 
The gesture, that of a famed danseuse : 
Nobody's pupil— child of the street. 

Forward and backward she sways and bends ; 
Light is the fall of the little feet ; 
Easy the spring of the bended knee. 
Airy and graceful — child of the street. 



THE SIDEWALK DANCE. 21 

Now back of her curls her small hands clasp, 
One foot out-tossed in a movement fleet; 
A model fit for a sculptor's eye 
In her pose, is this child of the street. 

What does she care for a ball-room floor? 
Where nightly, children of fashion meet ; 
Has she not always her organ-man? 
And her room? She's a child of the street. 



RETROSPECTION. 

I sit here in shimmering satin, 

And ripples of snowy lace. 
I am dressed for an evening reception, 

Where I'm asked to lend my grace. 

I'm a woman of wealth and fashion. 
And I live in society's foam. 

Why ! the jewels that circle my throat 
Cost more than my earl}' home. 

Dear home of my innocent childhood, 

I see yon now, in the glare. 
As the firelight falls on low-ceiled walls, 

Wliile I kneel for evening prayer. 

As I look, the present slips from me ; 

- 1 am in the pasrt again: "' 
A child; with a mother^'- sniile or frown. 
To make np my joy or pain. 



RETROSPECTION. 23 

"O! Jesus, Tender Shepherd, lead me"— 

I can hear the voice and see 
A slender little white-robed figure 

Bending low at mother's knee. 

The prayer of my guileless childhood — 
Dare I breathe the words to-night? 

Will mother's love, from her home above, 
Lead me in paths that are right? 

Oh ! days of my far-away girlhood, 
Will you never come back to me? 

Are you gone like the flowing river, 
That hides itself in the sea? 



What is ambition and rank to-night 
And the pleasure wealth commands. 

Compared to the love of mother's kiss, 
A touch from her folded hands? 



RETROSPECTION. 24 



But I must get back to the present. 

My gloves, my fan, what, so late? 
Ten o'clock? Well, I've been far away, 

While coachman and carriage — wait. 



MEN OF THE MAINE. 

While he sleeps in a foreign soil, 
I fain would raise my voice, to tell 

Of one whose valiant heart and hand. 
Proclaimed the fact we know so well. 

That those who tread our decks of war. 
Are men of nerve and courage high ; 

No country's nav}' teaches more 
Of discipline, to do— or. die. 

When, from out that quivering wreck 

And crash, and roar, and smoke, and blaze, 

Our gallant Sigsbee reached the deck, 
He saw a common sailor, raise 

His hand to cap in a salute ; 

Coolly as if at morning drill. 
The act proved but an attribute. 

That spoke a courage higher still. 



MEN OF THE MAINE. 26 

"Flood the gun-cotton down below," 
Above the roar the Captain cries, 

A cool salute — he turns to go 
To do his duty — so he dies. 

And still some Spanish papers say 
Our battle ships can never win 

In war, because of a display 

That shows a lack of discipline. 

And still we hear from foreign lips, 
False words of censure and disdain. 

But this we know, that no flag dips 
To braver men, than sailed the IMaine. 

All glory to our martyred dead ! 

The Nations heart their shrine shall be. 
While acts like theirs, 'tis fitly said, 

Will live for all eternity. 

February i8g8. 



THE CALL OF THE SEA. 

Far off in a distant monntain 

A tiny stream begun, 
And the silvery thread grew wider 

With each day's passing sun, 
Until its strength was a river's ; 

The streamlet's life was done. 

And the river never wearied ; 

It crept through meadows green. 
And its banks were gay with blossoms. 

The snowy pebbles' gleam 
Shone up through the limpid waters, 

Where bits of sky were seen. 

But filling the golden morning, 
As it floats o'er woodland and lea, 

Like bells in the stillness chiming 
Comes the distant call of the sea. 



THE CALL OF THE SEA. 28 

So the river could not linger ; 

The sk}^ grew dark o'erhead, 
As over rocks and sunken reefs 

The storm-tossed waters sped. 
Flotsam and jetsam strewed the banks, 

Sad relics of the dead. 

Beyond the narrows, storms outrun. 

It widened to a ba}'. 
On whose calm bosom tired ships rest: 

But still it kept its way. 
Passing out with, the ebbing tide 

Into the shadows gray. 

Out into the twilight tender, 

To the arms of the waiting sea — 

So life, like the river, floweth 
To to the call of eternity. 



A SPRING LESSON. 

I wandered one day in a meadow green ; 
'Twas close by the side of a noisy stream, 
And learned a lesson I'll tell in rhyme, 
I found in the heart of a dandelion. 

It la\' ver\- warm in its emerald bed ; 

By the soft south winds, and the dew-drops 

fed, 
And the sun of morning had left his sign 
On the golden heart of the dandelion. 

For ever}- morning it woke to new bliss, 
At touch of his tender, magical kiss ; 
And the dew-drops bent low at eventime. 
O'er the golden life of the dandelion. 

"But you, poor little foolish meadow flower, 

Do you never dream of a darker hour? 

For the spring will pass with the march of 

time. 
And leave thee to wither, fair dandelion. 



A SPRING LESSON. 30 

" And ah ! there are others, trembling in bliss, 
At the touch of the sun-beams morning kiss; 
And as for the dew-drops, the wind and rain, 
They cherish alike all flowers of the plain. 

'' The bees that come now, by thy sweetness 

fed, 
Will soon pass thee by, with thy silvery head ; 
Then what will be left of this life of thine? 
O! tell me, fair heart of the dandelion." 

" Aye ! I know I shall lose my heart of gold ; 
But a life all whiteness it shall unfold. 
And then I shall have had my rapture time^^^ 
Were the low, soft words of the dandelion. 



A WISH. 

I pray that I may be the first to go. 
That to the brink of that dark, lonely stream, 
Your tender hand may hold mine close, and so 
Lead to the water's edge my faltering feet. 
Let my last sense and sight of earthly joys 
Be the warm love-light in those eyes of thine ; 
That even then might have the power to drive 
The chill of death from out my ebbing veins. 
For not until your gentle touch weighs down 
My heavy lids, will answering love in mine 
Be hid from sight — gone out beyond recall. 
And when the dews from off the river grim 
Lie damp and cold, on pallid cheek and brow. 
Be your's the loving hand that wipes aw^ay 
Those heralds of the dreaded King's ap- 
proach. 



A WISH. 32 

Press one last kiss upon my silent lips ; 
Poor silent lips, that ne'er will vex or pain, 
With words that might have better died un- 
said. 
Erring, impulsive lips, that loved you well ; 
That used to press with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness, your eyes, your hands, your 

hair. 
And breathe their love-vows o'er and o'er 

again. 
To ears that never seemed to wear}- grow — 
And let it be the seal, when passion's fled. 
And the poor form }'our arms have held so 

long. 
Yields to the touch of a new lover — Deaths 
That still yow claim your ow/i^ in life, in death. 
In world's to come — your^s longed for, — 

cherished 
Loved and mourned, and lived for., though 
passed from sight. 



A WISH. 33 

So that when you come, dear, I may greet 

you 
Beside the portal where I stand and wait ; 
When from death's cruel night you turn to 

me, love, 
Together we will enter at the gate. 



SONG OF THE PRESS. 

She is only a ^^ feeder ^^ sitting 
By the side of a "Potter" press, 

As with eyes on her guide the white sheets 
glide 
With a touch and a light caress. 

And her days go around and around, 
To the steady sound of her press ; 

And the song that it sings a message brings 
That only a ^^ feeder ^^ would guess. 

The sheets are the days of life, it says. 
All spotless and fair as the flowers ; 

On the feed-board of time they pass in line 
To the gi^ippers — the flying hours. 

Some go crooked, and hurry along. 
And on rollers of sin cling fast ; 

Stained, crumpled and torn, all useless they're 
borne 
To the basket of ivaste^ at last. 



SONG OF THE PRESS. 35 

Others that rest close up to the guides^ 
Wait their turn, and follow on straight, 

Are carried along with impetus strong ; 
And clear the impression they take. 

The lines are perfect, the color true, 

No slurring or set-off is there ; 
The registering proves each sheet in its 
grooves 

Is laid with an infinite care. 

The days of her life go 'round and 'round, 
The week, and the month, and the year. 

The book she's printing will soon reach an 
end — 
'^\\^ feeders long rest will be here. 

When she sees "finis" crossing the page. 
And knows 'tis the end of her run — 

When the Great Reviewer calls in her work, 
Will she hear the words said, "well 
done!" 



SOXG OF THE P/y'ESS. ^(^ 

With e\es on the Guide she should follow. 
If she lives each day's page clean and true. 

She shall hear, when tliey're bound by the 
Master, 
''She did what her hand found to do." 

Let her days go 'round and 'round. 
To the steady sound of her press ; 

She knows its song, and it niaketh her strong 
For dut\-, for labor, for — rest. 



THE CLOCK'S CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 

I bring a joyous greeting 

To friends both tried and true. 
Many a ''Merr>^ Christmas" 

I hope to chime for you. 
My hands will point the moments, 

My face will tell the way, 
The flying little seconds, 

Count up to make the day. 

At passing hour, and half hour, 

My voice will clearly speak ; 
So through the hours of darkness. 

My sight you need not seek. 
I'm something like the giver, 

(To tell you I feel bound) 
Though we both can get wound up. 

The right key must be found. 



THE CLOCK'S CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 3<^ 



She wishes me to tell yoii, 

I come to serve you all ; 
She would like to see me 'ueath 

That "Picture on the wall." 
And when ni)^ voice speaks to you, 

May a ling'ring tone 'wake 
Kind thoughts of her who sends me 

"Be good," please, for her sake. 



She knows not what the hours hold. 

Of pleasure or of tears ; 
She knows not what the years bring 

Of hopes, or joys, or fears. 
But may there in your hearts abide, 

Till dawns that wondrous Christmas tide, 
The angels' song, by time defied, 

"Peace and Good-will." 



IN THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

Oh ! could I but one moment see and know, 
The glorious land where our beloved ones go. 
Where pain and weariness o'ercome ; 
They feel the peace of their fair home, 
The Land O' the Leal. 

Could I but see beyond these shores of time. 
That countr>' 'neath the smile of God sub- 
lime ; 
Could I but nearer draw, that I 
Might feel, the soft winds wafted from 
The Land O' the Leal. 

Oh ! that my longing eyes might pierce thro' 

space. 
And catch the wondrous glory on each face, 
That on nn' listening ear, the sound 
Might steal, of a dear voice, from out 
The Land O' the Leal. 



IN THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 40 

But all is silent on the distant shore, 
The river rushes onward ever more. 
I wait its pulsing tide to feel, 
That it may bear me nearer to 
The Land O' the Leal. 



OR ELSE. 

FROM "PRAYER FOR THE SICK." — Praye7' 
Book. 

Two little words, which hold the power to 
swing 
The balance in its poise, 'twixt night and 
day. 
The pointing on the dial, that will bring, 
Throngh shadows dark, the eternal morn- 
ing's ray. 



Little words, that hold within their mean- 
ing. 
The heights of joy, the bitter dregs of woe. 
Robbing ns, of love on which we're leaning ; 
Or filling hearts with peace, 'tis good to 
know. 



OR ELSE. 42 

For blind, our human love clings to its own ; 
From breaking hearts goes up the plead- 
ing cry : 
" Not this^ Oh, Father ! in thy heavenly 
home, — 
Not this, not this, we cannot let them die." 



Two wee words, so filled with pain and sor- 
row. 

A giving up of loves we fain would keep ; 
A yearning, struggling wish to borrow, 

A longer lease of life that seems so sweet. 

Just two zvords ; and will the Master listen? 

The wisdom of His way our hearts compel. 
He hears our cry, sees the tear-drops glisten ; 

And this we know, He doeth all things 
well. 



THE OLD HOME. 

All desolate the bare fields lie, 
Beneath the pale December sun ; 

And flocks of hungry crows swoop by, 
Where fattened partridge used to run. 

No seed of grain sleeps in the earth, 
With promise for the harvest days! 

No stalk of corn can tell the worth, 
Of cribs filled high with golden maize. 

While here and there a peach tree stands, 
Unpruned and knotty, gray and old, 

Survivor on these unworked lands. 
Of orchards bent beneath their gold. 

In wild neglect the vineyards lie, 

Where once each vine was trained witli 
pride ; 
Through waving ''sedge" the bleak winds 
sigh, 
And on its gusts the dead leaves ride. 



THE OLD HOME. 44 

The loosened clap-boards lift and fall, 

Where once was stored the fragrant ha}' ; 

No eager cows and horses call, 

In clani'rons tones at close of day. 

Tall o'er the house the trees stand still. 
But gone the pets from yard and door ; 

The empty rooms with shadows fill. 
Of forms, that used to cross the floor. 

No welcome waits my coming feet, 

Should I once more the threshold tread ; 

Only the flowers of memoiy sweet, 
About the spot their fragrance shed. 



INFLUENCE. 

Do' St know that sometimes we poor human 

mites 
Do two lives lead — separate and distinct 
As shadows, thrown by purple clouds that 

pass 
Across the brilliant blue of summer skies? 
Two friends have I, beneath whose influence, 
My life two wholly different ways is drawn. 
One in whose eyes I see the love light shine. 
Leads me to where soft zeph}TS fan ni}' brow. 
Laden with perfume, like a censer swung ; 
Flowers with tropic coloring, rich and rare. 
Lie close about my feet, and fill the place 
With a delicious sense of sweet repose. 
The wood dove softly calls unto its mate. 
From out the swinging vines, low music, 

sweet 
As siren's song, falls on my raptured ear. 



INFLUENCE. 45 

When resting in this spot would surely seem 

That love were paradise, and life a dream. 

****** 

And then the other, in whose clear eyes shines 
A light not born of earth, beckons me up, 
And we climb on until our feet rest high 
Upon the mountain top of a new world. 
The snow, capped cliffs rear high their hoary 

heads, 
And in their silent grandeur pure and white. 
Seem to point to that blue vault bent o'er us ; 
And Oh ! it seems but such a little way, 
I think my feeble hand might almost grasp 
The fleecy clouds that spirit like drift by. 
Then when I am tired and seem to falter, 
My steps grown halting, very weak and slow, 
That outstretched hand, strong, yet ever 

tender, 
Upholds and leads me on, safe and secure. 
And now we stand far up the glittering 

heights ; 



INFLUENCE. 47 

Strange silence tells of an eternal life. 
Cool, the air blows o'er ns fresh as kisses, 
That are culled from pure, tender, childish 

lips. 
The eagle with its mighty sweep of wing. 
Wheels in its circles high above our heads. 
Our resting place seems like a hollowed 

star. 
All luminous with splendor not of earth, 
And sweet and faint, far down the mountain 

path. 
We hear a matin by the sky lark sung. 
As fleet of wing he seeks for heaven's gate ; 
Sounding like tones of wayside chapel bell, 
Calling the waking world to prayer and praise. 
And as I linger in this height sublime, 
The life I've lived seemed like the world 

below. 
So dark a dream as to become "a blot 
On the white radiance of eternity." 



I NFL UENCE. 48 

And thus I paint the picture of two paths, 
Which is the one to give a soul content? 
Mark well the lights and shadows on them 

thrown, 
For in these lives there is a lesson blent. 



AFTER AWHILE. 

What will it matter after awhile, 

Whether my path lies rugged, or fair ; 

Whether my lips were made but to smile ; 
Or life be idle, or filled with care? 

What will it matter after awhile, 

Whether my harvest be smiles, or tears ; 

Whether I journey for many a mile, 

'Long a pathway marked by hopes, or 
fears? 

What will it matter after awhile. 
If my life lies in shadow, or sun; 

Whether my hands are busy and full. 

Or empty and still, love's work all done? 

Soon shall daisies and buttercups nod 
Over my breast, in the emerald sod. 

And the dead leaves whirl and soft snows 
pile. 
So, what matters it, after awhile? 



SONG OF THE SEASONS. 

My love and I, we wandered forth, 

On a morn' in early June. 
While yet the perfumed air was rife, 

With the bird's sweet mating tune. 

And my heart sang, too, for gladness. 

Sang, as we stopped to rest, 
"Of all the times of the year, love, 

I am sure that spring is best. " 

Then when the heat of harvest days. 
Gleams over the yellow land, 

iVIy love and I 'neath spreading trees. 
By the soft warm winds were fanned. 

I dreamed dreams in the drowsv air, 
That never were put in rhyme. 

While my love made life a poem. 
Through the glowing summer time. 



SONG OF THE SEASONS. 51 

When the mellow light of autumn, 
Falls aslant the rip'ning fields. 

And rustling stalk, and swaying vine, 
Gold and purple harvest yields ; 

I gaze into my true love's eyes, 

And the story that they tell. 
Even while autumn's sad wind sighs 

Cheers my heart, and all is well. 

And still when winter clasps the earth, 

In its deadly chill embrace, 
I draw close to my lover's side, 

x\nd look in his tender face. 

And these are the words I whisper : 
"I think, while left together. 

Your love for me, and mine for you 
My sweetheart, 'makes the weather. ' " 



THE PALACE OF THE HEART. 

A woman built a palace, 

Where she thought her heart could rest ; 
She spared no cost, or labor. 

And she made it from her best ; 
She raised the walls so stately. 

Then its vaulted chambers made, 
x\nd there, when all was finished. 

Her weary heart she laid. 

She thought she builded wisely, 

For the palace looked so fair ; 
But Oh ! there was no comfort, 

In a place so cold and bare. 
Its icy w^alls gleamed brightly, 

But their touch was cold as death ; 
The poor thing, shivering drooped. 

And shrank from their chilling breath. 



THE PALACE OF THE HEART. 53 



She sought to hide the bareness 

Then, with pictures rich and rare 
From the past, their bright colors 

Arranged with the greatest care ; 
The room she filled with memories, 

From beautiful "long ago," 
To shut out the biting winds, 

Drapings of pride swung low. 

But still her heart kept murmuring 

At the bitterness of fate. 
Yet with patience born of pain, 

Met the years so desolate ; 
For inside of the palace, 

The bright sunbeams never fall ; 
Only tones of a vanished youth 

From out the stillness call. 



THE PALACE OF THE HEART. 54 



Oh ! struggling heart of woman 

What a weak thing you prove, 
When you try to crush old dreams, 

Or bury the sweet old love. 
Try as you may to crush them. 

They hold you in their power; 
O'er life, at its close, will fall 

Leaves from youth's passion flower. 



NOVUS VIT^. 

The fire burned low, the night came slowly 

down. 
Before the grate, wrapt in the shadows soft, 
A lady sat, her eyes upon the coals. 
Her thoughts were busy with the shifting 

scenes 
That pla}'ed upon the canvas of her past — 
Such a brief span it was, that told her years. 
And yet with empty hands, that idle lay. 
With life's work done, she sat in gloomy 

thought. 
While the quick bounding pulses of her 

youth. 
Beat out the sluggish moments calm and 

slow. 
But as she lingered, as a miser might. 

Before her vanished joys — her "might have 

beens;" 



NOV us VIT^. 56 



There sprang ( born of past pain and lone- 
liness, ) 
Fair new resolves, filling her eyes with light. 
The Father great, may give long lease of life, 
Should I spend all my years, \\\y womanhood 
In vain regrets, for that which is denied? 
Rather rise up, and in some fair good work 
Bur>' past pain, that from the wreck of youth, 
May grow a nobler life, to look upon ; 
And in the thought so beautifully expressed, 
B}' glowing pen of England's famous bard, 
"Make stepping-stones of a dead-self, to bet- 
ter things. " 
To-day that thought makes radiant her life ; 
Her work is great — her heart and hands are 

full. 
And in her new born strength her joyful 

cr\' is — 
" Father, I once in bitterness, believed 



NOV us VIT^. 57 



That thou hadst taken from me, all that 

made 
My world so sweet, so fair to look upon ; 
Now I thank thee, with o'erflowing heart. 
That thou kept from me the one gift I craved. 
That in my cup of happiness might fall. 
Not only love of one ( but through my work) 
The priceless love, and gratitude of all. " 



THE CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 

When the work of the day is over, 

In silence I sit alone. 
The clock over there in the corner 

Keeps time with its low monotone. 

But to me it is never tiresome, 

I know I can always hear 
Two voices speaking distinctly. 

In the ticking loud and clear. 

The first is the voice that speaks to me, 

In the busy work-a-da)'. 
Reminding through sunshine and shadow. 

How the moments flee away. 

But the other voice whispers only, 

At the hush of eventide. 
Sacred hour, that links earth with heaven. 

Throughout the universe wide. 



THE CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 59 

And often, and often I've wondered, 

Is there hidden in our lives 
A melody low — an undertone. 

That through noise and strife survives? 

Harmonies, low, as angel's whispers. 

That are wafted on the breeze. 
Like touch from invisible fingers, 

Drawn over life's minor keys? 

That doth brighten our gloomy moments. 
When our wear>' hearts crave rest. 

As the sun on the heaving ocean, 
Lights the tossing billows' crest. 

So, when life's little day is over. 
All its countless tasks well done. 

In a sweet and perfect melody, 
May the voices blend in one. 



THE WRECK OF THE ELBE. 

Cold and cruel was the waves' embrace 
Where the Elbe's lives went dow^n ; 

The fog hung low o'er the signal's glow, 
And the fair ship sank to the sands below 
Where the sea hides well her dead. 

Four hundred lives was the freight she bore 
That night off the English coast ; 

And wild was the cry, as doomed to die, 
They were swept away by the waves, to lie 
Where the sea hides all her dead. 

Onh' one woman, out of them all, 
Saved from that terrible wreck. 

God pity the home, where the low moan 
Tells of a life to be lived all alone. 

While the sea holds fast her dead. 



THE WRECK OF THE ELBE. 61 

There are heads bowed low, and hearts that 
break, 
Each side of the ocean wide, 
And the pain will last till life be passed, 
When from out of the waters deep and vast 
The sea shall give up her dead. 
December^ /< 



IN THE LIGHT OF A LAMP. 

Another milestone marks the flying years, 
Filled with their share of hopes, and joys 

and fears; 
Another tnrning of the wheel of time, 
That makes a cvcle in this life of thine. 



In memory of the day, I send to thee 
A lamp, as type of what thy life shonld be ; 
It will burn on, close to the wick's dried end ; 
May thy life to its socket burn, my friend. 



In darkest night its light shines all around ; 
So may thy light shine out when clouds 

abound ; 
A light to guide thy weaker brother home. 
Who, wearv with the struggle, falls alone. 



IN THE LIGHT OF A LAMP. 63 

Trim each with steady hand and patient 

care; 
Remove the burnt up crusts that come from 

wear. 
Feed each with food, the best within thy 

scope^ 
And keep both clean with self-control, and — 

soap. 

And in the light of both I w^ant a place ; 
May the soft gleaming fall upon my face? 
And if I come, should clouds drift o'er my 

sky. 
Will thy life brightness shed, till they roll by ? 

And w^hen at last thy light of life grows dim, 
Like stars that fade on the horizon's rim ; 
Be it but change of night, into the dawn 
Of perfect cloudless day — the Eternal ]\Iorn. 



A DAY ON THE HUDSON. 

Majestic river! on whose bank 

My first faint infant breath I drew, 

With swelling heart I name thy rank, 

"Lord" of that world yet called "the 
new." 

Once more I feel thy pulsing tide, 
As on thy waves so swiftly borne, 

I once more watch thy bosom wide 
Gleam in the light of early morn. 

The shadow on the mountain falls. 

To lose itself in thy embrace ; 
The tints each fleeting year recalls 

I see reflected on thy face. 

As pilgrims to a distant shrine 

Return each year wnth gift and prayer, 

So is this "coming home" of mine 
Freighted with all mv heart can bear. 



A DA Y ON THE HUDSON. 65 

Thoughts that now hold in}- life in touch 
With those of kindred gone before, 

Who knew thy banks, and loved thee much. 
Still bind my heart to wave and shore. 

Close b}' thy side may I, too, sleep 
Ivike them, my little race "well run;" 

I'll wait th}^ call, the tryst to keep, 
When sets at last life's westering sun. 

October 14^ ^8^j. 



FATE. 

In a crystal home, with walls so fair, 
Tended and nourished with constant care, 
Budded and blossomed with lives so free, 
L/illies, and roses, and pansies, three. 

The lillies, dainty, fragile and pure ; 
What alas! could their beauty endure? 
They lived to prove that their lives were 

brave. 
Bound to a sword, on a hero's grave. 

The roses, that smiled to the morning light. 
Distilled their sweetness throughout the 

night ; 
When nodding their heads, they closer 

pressed — 
A blood red knot on my lady's breast. 

The dear little pansies crossed the seas, 
Sent with a message, also heartsease ; 
In a man's Bible they've lain for years. 
Often their dust is moist from his tears. 



"GOING AT AUCTION— A PEW AT 
ST. PETERS," 

(So ran the aiinounceinent in one of our 

dailies.) 
Who bids? (I lay down the paper). 
The sale is because of the rent which is 

much overdue. 
And now, dear St. Clements, while craving 

a pardon from you, 
For you are like all the rest of your kind, 
That in centers of fashion one always can 

find— 
I would like a few observations to make 
On the system of pew-rents, the give and 

the take 
Of the rich congregations, for pews of their 

own ; 
When on entering and closing the door 

thev're alone 



GOING AT A UCTION. 68 

With the Lord in His temple, where by His 

preaching- 
He proved all men brethren, for such was 

His teaching. 
Where He forbade them to barter, or b}' an)- 

disguise, 
To sully His House with the world's mer- 
chandise. 
The stranger, who finds himself Sunda)- 

alone 
In our beautiful cit}', 

Is called by the bell's earh' tone to worship. 
But his feet on the threshold must stay, 
Till all those are seated, who are able to pay 
For the privilege of bending the knee 
In the House of Our Father, then the usher 

will see 
If among the "reserved" seats he is able to 

find 
A place for the stranger, to which he's as- 
signed. 



GOING A T AUCTION. 69 

And I mentally ask, as I think of this plan 
Of obtaining a sitting, ^^ the bcst^^^ if yon can, 
Will the time never come, when the Chnrch 

as one Mother, 
Shall open her doors, and from one to an- 
other 
A welcome be given? 
That each of her children ma\- enter and 

share 
Withont worldly distinction, the privilege 

there ? 
When her gates shall be open through each 

working day. 
That the wear}' ma>' enter and rest there, 

and pray? 
When the child of misfortune, and those 

born in pride. 
Shall lose their positions and kneel side by 

side? 
When the auctioneer's hammer shall never 

more fall 



GOING AT A UCTION. 70 

To the sound of liis voice, as he closes his 

call of — 
"Going at auction! going! — who bids." 



THE ANGLERS. 

Speckled trout, in shady brook ; 

Foolish trout on cruel hook ; 
Lifted from his pebbly home, 

To die, upon the bank, alone. 

But the angler, he's caught, too. 

By a bait of eyes so blue ; 
In white hands the line doth lie. 

That will "land," then let him die. 

Foolish trout, to grab for flies. 
Foolish man caught up by eyes ; 

Best keep quiet in shady pool ; 
Blue eyes often catch to fool. 



OLD FRIENDS. 

" Old Friends to Love ! 
Old Books to Read ! 
Old Wine to Drink ! 
Old Wood to Burn! " 

OLD FRIENDS TO LOVE. 

Aye, as the years pass swiftly, 

Fond ineinor}' gives to each its old time 
place, 
And closer to onr hearts we press their image, 

That bns}' fingered time cannot efface. 

New friends may find a welcome, 

And bring an added snnshine to onr lives, 
Bnt in that honr that's jnst betwixt the 
gloaming, 
Tis loving thonght of old friends that 
survives. 



Or.n FRIENDS. 73 

OLD BOOKS TO RKAD. 

For can we ever cherish 

The novel, problematic in its style, 
In which the donbtfnl hero conies to greet ns, 

And poses with his modern maid awhile? 

Shall these displace old volnmes? 

Na}', rather tnrn to those we've loved for 
}'ears ; 
With Sedley, Osborne, Little Panl, and Dora, 
Spend moments of alternate smiles and 
tears. 

OLD WINE TO DRINK. 

The jnices pressed to-da\' 

Are not the ones that warm or thrill the 
heart. 
Poor, insipid, sweet, all men do pass them by ; 
They find no place in commerce' bnsy 
mart. 



OLD FRIENDS. 74 

But added years bring sparkle ; 

To youthful sweetness give a richer zest, 
While the strong, but subtle perfume, like 
incense, 
Doth welcome to our board the honored 
guest. 

OLD WOOD TO BURN. 

Hast never tried the new? 

"Fly not to evil that you wot not of" 
The sizzling sap, the smoke, the feeble flicker, 

Will never raise your thoughts to things 
above. 

But try time-seasoned hickory. 

That blazing, gives out warmth and ruddy 
light. 
Imparting new life, as the old consuming, 

Falls in the end to ashes pure and white. 



A HERO IN THE STRIFE. 



It was in one of those long files-rooms, 
that form a labyrinth on the top floor of one 
of the Government buildings, in Washington, 
I first saw him. He was busy sorting and 
shelving an immense pile of documents. 

He was bent from years of constant stoop- 
ing ; his gray hair brushed away from a broad 
brow that showed lines of care and anxiety ; 
his lips lay close one upon the other, as if 
from years of repression, and at the corners 
there was a pathetic droop. Behind the soft 
brown eyes there lurked glimpses of a some- 
thing that told the story of sorrows and 
struggles, lived and conquered. 

He went on with his work, while I watched 
the trembling hands as they numbered and 
tied, wondering how he came to be there, 
and how long this had been his work, and 
for whom he labored. 

After this I used to stop often to chat, on 
my way to my room. Sometimes I would 



A HERO IN THE STRIFE. 75 

ask if he "were not weary of the same rou- 
tine day after day?" and he would answer 
me with a smile "he was used to it — he did 
not mind." When the days grew long and 
warmer, and the air, heavy with its odor of 
leather and musty papers, became almost 
stifling, I noticed the step of the "little old 
gentleman" grow slower, his movements 
more unsteady ; yet patiently, without a 
murmur he came each day to his task, his 
shiny black coat hanging a little looser, 
his face a little whiter — that was all. 

One warm day as I passed his open door, 
I saw him leaning heavih' forward on the 
table, and when I touched his arm, he did 
not move, so I called help in, who lifted him 
and laid him on a couch, when the patient 
eyes opened with a grateful look of recogni- 
tion in them. Later we called a cab and 
took him home. 

Such a "home," a poor little hall bedroom 
on a third floor. His landlady said "it was 
too bad, for he was such a quiet old gentle- 
man, and never made any trouble." 



A HERO IN THE STRTEE. 77 

He rallied a little, but in a few days his 
small remnant of strength was exhausted and 
in the same uncomplaining way in wdiich he 
lived, he died. He had told me in case of 
his death I should forward the news to an 
address which he gave me in an eastern cit}'. 
And this I did. When a few of us who had 
known him in the department met to show 
our last mark of respect, a stranger came 
quietly into the room and stood for some 
time beside the still form. The face of the 
dead had undergone that subtle change often 
noticed. It would seem that, as if sorry for 
stopping the heart beats, death, with gentle 
touch smooths away the lines that life and 
sorrow make, and age creeps^backward into 
the shadows, while the old light of youth 
once more illumines the features, like a 
flame, shining softly behind an alabaster 
shade. 

After that silent farewell, we bore to his 
long rest, in the old Congressional Cemeter}' 
the " little old gentleman " who " never made 
anv trouble." 



A HERO IN THE STRIFE. 78 

That evening the stranger called on me, 
and finding me deeply interested in my office 
friend, told me the story of his uncle's life. 

"Years before two boys had been left alone 
in a New England town by the death of their 
parents. There was a difference of ten years 
in their ages ; and all that love could devise 
and labor secure, the elder gave the younger 
— ' the boy,' as he fondly called him. And 
so time passed in work, study, and plans for 
the future. Dave stifled his desire for a 
college education, smothered his ambitions 
and entered upon a mercantile career, he 
labored and saved, that he might give to 
the idolized brother's life, what his own had 
lost — the advantage of education and society. 

"One dream of happiness he kept for him- 
self, and hugged close to his breast ; when 
'the boy' should be established in his pro- 
fession there was one heart which he thought 
he could claim for his very own, he would 
not bind her, but he would wait till then. 
Fred's last college year came 'round when 
chance brouo:ht to the town, his brother's 



A HERO IN THE STRIFE. 79 

love, they met, and Fred's handsome face and 
high spirits found favor with the girl, she 
was young and free, while he knew nothing 
of his brother's strong attachment; it was 
the old story repeated, a hasty marriage, 
with no thought of the future. When the 
news reached the quiet, serious man, bend- 
ing over his ledger, together with the name 
of the lady, he made no sign, but hid his 
wound and plodded on. When the passing 
years brought to ' the boy ' their weight of 
increase, and sorrow and care, Dave's hands 
lightened the burdens. Children came and 
were buried— nothing prospered. At last the 
wife died and left a little one deprived of his 
mother's love and care. And shortly after 
'the boy' followed her, leaving the baby, 
myself, to the care of the same elder brother, 
who had kept his own boyhood from sorrow 
and want. 

"And," continued the speaker, "faithfully 
Uncle Dave fulfilled his trust. He came to 
Washington years ago, securing a Govern- 
ment position, keeping me at the North. 



A HERO IN THE STRIFE. 80 

He denied himself even- luxury, I find, in 
order to give to the child of his early love, 
and his 'boy' brother every advantage. 
When I was old enough he confided to nie 
the secret of his first and only love ; we had 
always corresponded but he would never let 
me come on to see him, and so kept from me 
his life of noble self-denial — a life lived thor- 
oughly for others. Uncomplaining, patient, 
going through his daily round of labor 
'making no trouble.' " 

I miss the quaint, little, stoop shouldered 
old gentleman, when I pass No. 39. I miss 
his gentle smile and kindly greeting ; but I 
am glad I learned his story, glad he rests 
from his labors. 

I can only hope when the mists clear, that 
from over on the other side of the" valley his 
loved ones with the spirit's perfect sight have 
learned to know him as he was. 



AUTUMN DAYS ON COUNTRY 
ROADS. 



On a clear, bright morning, late in Sep- 
tember, I mounted my wheel, off for my an- 
nual vacation, this time to be a ride from 
Philadelphia to Kennett Square, through 
Delaware and Chester counties. My wa}^ led 
through a section of countr>^ beautified to- 
ward the south for many miles by elegant 
summer homes. 

My first halt was at Chester, made historic 
by the landing of Penn over two hundred 
years ago. A friend of mine claims to be 
the proud owner of that identical bit of land 
upon which the illustrious old first settler set 
foot. I thought, if the good old man might 
be permitted to have a glimpse of the 
place as it is to-day, he would feel justly 
proud. A thriving, busy town, of some 
15,000 inhabitants, where large industries 
are located; among them I mention the 



ON COUNTR Y ROADS. 82 

ship-yards of Roach & Son, employing as it 
did, when I saw it, some eight hundred men. 
The firm name was continued, though the 
work of father and son was finished, and 
"The Great Builder" had called both into 
" Port ". Some of the finest x\merican crafts 
afloat, are products of these yards. I pro- 
ceeded by the old stage line to Media. The 
country homes of many wealthy Philadel- 
phians dot the landscape, with here and 
there great barns and windmills denoting 
large stock farms with their peacefully graz- 
ing herds. Now and then old stone farm 
houses peep out from under the shelter of 
gnarled apple trees, but these are fast dis- 
appearing to make place for the more pre- 
tentious modern dwelling. 

These old homes of bygone generations 
look wonderfully comfortable though with 
their gardens and "spring houses," moss 
covered, suggestive of glasses of cold rich 
milk. The fencing for the most part, is the 
clean "post and rail" some wire of different 
styles, and here and there the stone wall and 



ON COUNTR Y ROADS. 83 

"worm". What an incongruous word the 
thrifty farmer applies to the treasures nature 
gathers about these irregular fences "filth". 
I remember well dismounting at the bend 
of a road, with the exclamation "Oh! that 
I could hold the pencil of a Gibson. There 
was a niche under the shadows of soft gray 
stone, where the golden-rod was holding her 
court, royal asters aiding her in her beauty, 
tall ferns, as courtiers in the back ground, 
cardinals waving their brilliant colors, while 
over the group hung a conopy of blue, the 
picture set in that soft dreamy haze, peculiar 
to a perfect autumn day. I found Media a 
delightful little town, rich in its old families, 
exclusive as to its society, the home of some, 
prominent in state politics, while being the 
county seat, many public buildings are located 
here. Many of the "Public Houses" still 
bear old English names such as "Black 
Horse, " " Red Lion, " " Rose Tree ;" the last 
mentioned, just out of the town, entertains 
the " Phila. Fox Hunting Club," where at its 
annual "meets" it is entertained in the old 



ON CO UNTR ) ' ROADS. 84 

English style. 

Nowhere, if I may except the New Eng- 
land States, have I found more attention paid 
to educational matters than in these counties 
of Pennsylvania. The next afternoon I con- 
tinued my way, stopping over to see the well 
known Darlington creamery. One of the 
proprietors kindly showed me through the 
quaint looking building of "Queen Ann's" 
style, where the famous brand of butter is 
made with such scrupulous care. It is well 
known on the " other side" and on the tables 
of steamers sailing in tropic waters. Late 
afternoon found me entering the little village 
of Concord, where I was to remain some days. 
All was still save the lowing of a distant cow 
and the voices of children frolicing on the 
lawn of a large school. 

Over the crumbling stone wall lay the 
"Friend's burying ground," a little further 
on, the Meeting House. The sun fast sink- 
ing in the west fell aslant the low white stones 
that mark the graves of those long gone home, 
turning them to a mellow golden tint, typical 



ON CO UN TRY ROADS. 85 

perhaps of our poor lives, so cold and color- 
less until touched by the "Sun of Righteous- 
ness" I dismounted and walked through the 
enclosure ; before me were graves of English- 
men who fell in the battle of the Brandy wine, 
unmarked, in foreign soil, while far away 
rest those they loved in quiet English church- 
yards. Ah, well! what matters it now? 
After life's fitful fever they sleep well, " friend 
and foe, side by side, while Time gently drops 
the curtain of forgetfulness over the struggles 
of the past, as two of the most powerful 
nations of the earth, clasp hands of faith and 
friendship. The outlines of the gray old 
Meeting House stands out clear against the 
evening sky, one by one the stars creep out, 
and night settles over the quiet hamlet. 

During my stay in Concord I was enter- 
tained by the physician of the place, a prac- 
titioner for over forty years ; with pleasure I 
recall his hearty greeting, the evening, made 
bright by his intellectual conversation and 
interesting reminiscences of such people as 
Ivucretia Mott, and others of her time. "A 



ON COUNTRY ROADS. 86 

man who bore without reproach the grand 
old name of gentle7nan^\ Whenever I hear 
that Scotch song "My ain countrie," I think 
of him, he loved it so much, and he has 
reached it now, and the busy kindly hands 
rest from their labors. This little town is 
very proud of its historic associations. One 
old homestead was Washington's headquar- 
ters while in this section. One family prized 
as relics, chairs and wine glasses once the 
property of Gen. Wayne. After a few days 
spent in driving with "mine host," I again 
pursued my way along the quiet country 
roads, sometimes meeting with the old type 
of country folk on their way to Wilmington 
or West Chester, he, in broad brimmed hat, 
she in deep plain bonnet, beneath which a 
sweet face never looked sweeter. The young 
people do not as a rule take kiitdly to the old 
dress, and it will soon be a thing of the past. 
I stopped a little at Chads Ford, 'tis but a 
railroad junction. The Brandy wine creeps 
slowly through its meadows, very harmless 
it looked then, but it is a swollen torrent of 



ON COUNTRY ROADS. 87 

angry waters in the early spring. A\\ about 
is historic ground. Across yonder field 
Howe drove Washington's flying troops, on 
that fatal day of September 1 1 th, 1 777, while 
1 200 lay dead on the field. A few miles dis- 
tant in the little Meeting House at Birming- 
ham the wounded were cared for ; dark stains 
upon the floor, tell to this day, of their suffer- 
ing, and later when the bright life stream 
ceased to flow, they were taken outside to 
their last resting place, where the wild rose 
bushes hide the mounds, and the birds call 
to each other from out the tall grass. Cannon 
balls are still ploughed up on these fields, re- 
minders of the days when their harvest was 
pain and death. 

Before reaching Kennett one comes upon 
" Longwood." Here I stopped, as I wished to 
visit the grave of one of Pennsylvania's most 
gifted sons. Bayard Taylor. On entering the 
enclosure, my e^^e was attracted to the lot of 
the Agnews, whose daughter, sweet Mary 
Agnew became the inspiration of his }'outh, 
the wife of his earlv manhood. To those who 



ON COUNTRY ROADS. 88 

have read the correspondence in his "Letters" 
no word of enlogy need be added to brighten 
the pure unselfish character the}' portra>'. 
Well ! both have crossed the mystic river, and 
perhaps, who knows, in that "Land O' The 
Leal" they have found each other and their 
youth, to lose neither again, please God. In 
the distance the trees toss their arms above 
his old home "Cedarcroft," whose halls now 
echo to the tread of stranger's footsteps, while 
his widow a German lady, and their only 
daughter spend most of the time abroad. I 
rode on, recalling what he had done for the 
English speaking people, b}' his busy pen. 
He has given us our " Faust" and our "Mar- 
guerite"; we have been with him through 
Europe again and again, from southern Itah' 
to northern Sweden, and for home pictures, 
we have "The Quaker Widow," "A Tale of 
Kennett," and man}' more. Sureh' we owe 
him much. 1 wandered about Kennett's 
shady streets, catching from the lips of pass- 
ers-by, names made familiar to me b}' Taylor's 
works, and felt I could enjoy a longer stay 



ON COUNTR Y ROADS. 89 

among its hospitable people. But my vaca- 
tion days were over. I had spent them chiefly 
in the past, far removed from our modern 
high pressure existence, amid the quiet pas- 
toral beauty of the counties through which 
I had passed. I put my wheel on the cars, 
and in less than two hours, stepped out at 
Broad Street station, resolving next year to 
again take a cycle trip somewhere in Penn- 
sylvania. 



A SUMMER CONCERT IN WASH- 
INGTON. 



The music of the Marine Band is too well 
known to need much description in this little 
sketch. It is heard by the winter visitor at 
all the important social functions, and the 
flying visits it pays to other cities makes it 
familiar to those not resident at the capital. 
Equally as much depends on the setting of a 
piece of music as on the setting of a play, as is 
illustrated in opera. The effect produced on 
the listener by a melody is either heightened 
or lessened by accompanying surroundings. 

To the lover of band music who has only 
heard the Marine Band in an academy, or 
sheltered by palms at an evening reception, 
the summer concert combines all the charms 
that his artistic taste demands. 

These musical treats are held on the lawn 
that slopes from the rear of the Execu- 
tive Mansion, on the piazza between the 



A SUMMER CONCERT. 91 

Senate and House wings at the front of the 
Capitol, and at the Marine Barracks. By 
far the most enjoyable is the first mentioned, 
commencing about the first of June and 
continuing every Saturday afternoon until 
the cool of the fall months. 

Tout la nionde is there, race, class and con- 
dition for the time forgotten, all intent on 
enjoying themselves, after their individual 
tastes. A thoroughly cosmopolitan, thor- 
oughly democratic gathering. The place 
itself is ideally beautiful. 

Picture many acres of lawn, with a turf 
like emerald velvet, sloping down from the 
rear portico of the historic old White House, 
till it becomes a part of the Mall, that con- 
tinues to the base of the towering Monu- 
ment, shaded on all sides by fine trees, under 
which park seats are found in abundance. 
Up near the house is set the temporary stand 
for the musicians, picturesque in the cool 
white of their summer uniforms. 

Filling the seats, stretched on the grass 
beneath the trees — all over the grounds in 



A SUMMER CONCERT. 92 

fact — a happy multitude in bright airy sum- 
mer dress. Nearest the rope that preserves 
the band from its admirers, who would break 
in waves of enthusiasm upon its very plat- 
form, is a cordon of Washington's omni- 
present element, " pussons of culler." 

They, like the Irishman's flea, are every- 
where save when one's finger would seek a 
good servant. The older ones are passing 
away, and in their own summing up ''most 
de young uns is pore trash." They are all 
here, pickininies ranging in years from three 
to twelve — pretty yellow girls with fine eyes 
and high school educations. They are, as a 
class, music loving, and make an apprecia- 
tive if not a critical audience. 

Outside this inner circle is a larger one, 
composed of a constantly moving mass of 
young people, enjoying the promenade, and 
displaying to each other's admiring or en- 
vious gaze the most extravagant toilets, 
extravagant in the variety of style, if not in 
dollars and cents, as their wearers represent 
every state that waves the stars and stripes. 



A SUMMER CONCERT. 93 

All are here. The self-poised stylish New 
York girl, whose equanimity nothing short 
of a crash in Wall street can shake ; the in- 
tellectual, high bred face of the Eastern lad}' ; 
the fun loving, loud spoken, showily dressed 
girl from the Pacific slope, and the soft voiced 
Southerner with her universally good figure 
and fine teeth. About this kaleidoscope 
circle are seen knots of grave faced states- 
men, who yet lingering in town are willing 
to forget the affairs of the nation in the 
relaxation found in watching this moving 
panorama of female loveliness between the 
puffs of their fragrant Havanas. 

Lounging around a big tree is a group of 
cavalrymen from Fort Myer, just across the 
river. They are often called the " centaurs," 
on account of their superb horsemanship. 
They belong to a troQp brought in from 
frontier service to taste for awhile the sweets 
of Eastern life. 

Resting on the soft turf are some artiller}-- 
men from the barracks, their blue and red 
adding a brilliant bit of color to the charm- 



A SUMMER CONCERT. 94 

ing picture. Over there in that quiet spot 
are some visitors from the country, a bride 
and a groom, just beginning life's journey, 
while close by in marked contrast, sits a typ- 
ical "Samantha Allen" and her "Josiah," 
who like "John Anderson, my Joe John," 
have climbed the hill together, and now are 
descending on the other side, towards life's 
westering sun. Nine selections have been 
played while you and I, reader, have been 
studying types. 

The shadows lengthen, and the last rays 
of the departing sunlight fall upon the 
sparkling waters of the great fountain, form- 
ing a rainbow setting for the Mall, the Mon- 
ument, and ornate building of Printing and 
Engraving in the distance. 

The band burst into the stirring strains of 
" Hail Columbia," which mingle with the 
booming of the "sunset gun" at Fort IMyer. 
"A National Air" is always the signal for the 
crowd to make its way to the gates. Waiting 
carriages are filled, wheels are mounted, cable 
trains crowded, streets thronged. 



A SUMMER CONCERT. 95 

The white hehnets of the band disappear 
down Pennsylvania Avenue as their owner's 
seek refreshment for their weary throats, 
with instruments clasped tenderly in their 
arms. Silence reigns in the grounds of the 
White House, a Saturday's concert in Wash- 
ington is over. 



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